


As Luck Would Have It

by Airy (hn209486)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Brief Cullen/Dorian, But not forever!!!!, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Multi, Represents Unhealthy Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hn209486/pseuds/Airy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lúthian Lavellan, I hereby sentence you…”</p><p>If things had went just slightly different at the Conclave. A story of a sister's search for her brother, the eventual tragedy of finding him, and the man who couldn't help but fall in love with the idea behind him and the shadow of his memory.</p><p>----</p><p>“Hello, Malinche.”</p><p>At that, she began to irrationally wail. Dorian could have sworn that it was the most heartbreaking noise he had ever heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The following work is going to be a multi-chapter fanfic. Warnings will happen as needed. Enjoy!

_“The magic of that anchor is too unknown, and more importantly too uncontrollable. This will be handled as seen fit. Lúthian Lavellan, I hereby sentence you…”_


	2. Chapter 1

Skyhold turned into something beautiful, something like art, a true piece of _work_ , in the early morning light. The sunlight cast long shadows across the courtyard, and the stones turned to liquid silver in the early morning light, making anyone who looked at it from outside the hold see both one of the most formidable places ever found, but also a scene worthy of a painting. On the cliff face, it looked like something right out of a storybook, and now it would be found in them. Someday, this place would get written down in tales of the inquisitions success, into songs that would be passed through bards for ages—about the organization that stood up against one of the largest Darkspawn threats in a one hundred year period.   
  
Or, that’s what people liked to say. Dorian wasn’t so sure.   
  
Besides the library, where light flowed in through the carefully painted glass and caused the walls to erupt in arrays of color, the garden was one of the other most tranquil and calming placed in Skyhold. Turned into a safe haven for prayer and refuge of those of the chantry, it truly did have a feeling of peace about it. The only real fault about it was the prying eyes of the chantry woman—old hags that tended to make Dorian feel like he was either being damned to hell, or like his neck was going to catch on fire.   
  
Yet when Cullen decided that he wanted to play a game of chess, the Tevinter was not prone to say no. Since joining the inquisition, the man had became rather fond of the Commander, and his eyes watched him now with a slightly narrowed, inquisitive expression. The blonde mans eyes were slightly narrowed, chin resting carefully on his hand as his other hovered over the board. They had been working at this particular game for nearly an hour now, neither able to get the upper hand on the other. Dorian could honestly say that when it came to chess, Cullen had him beat—but his pride would never let him admit it out loud, so he continued with the current topic of his interest.   
  
“You are bound to take offence to it, but I’m only saying that this Inquisition is taking a less than favorable turn for me.” Dorian huffed, leaning back deeper into his seat and carefully crossing one leg, the buckles across his chest tightening as he took a deep breath. Cullen’s blue eyes raised from the game at hand, eyebrows arching up before he sat back as well, abandoning his thoughts and pinching the bridge of his nose.   
  
“So you keep saying. Yet you still haven’t actually bothered to explain to me what about it bothers you.”  
  
No, he hadn’t. The Inquisition had seemed all fun and games when he had came rushing in to warn them about the approaching mage army—but he’d also had that same army hot on his heels, and was lucky not to have gotten an arrow in the neck on his way to warn the previous residents of Haven. It would have been ridiculous not to join them after that—when the leader of the Inquisition brought snow raining down on the entire place and nearly got them all— _and_ himself buried. No, the Tevinter had announced that he was going to be sticking around, and had been very sure in the decision. A number of dirty looks later, slurs on his heritage, and the Inquisition making a number of decisions that left a sour taste later… and he wasn’t so sure this was going exactly how he planned.   
  
“You never seem interested in my opinion anyway,” Dorian reached up to tug at his mustache as Cullen scowled at him. The Tevinter had begun to enjoy getting a rise out of the Commander, especially when he had discovered just how easy it was to get an entirely _different_ rise out of him—but such things weren’t on his mind at that point.   
  
“Yes, well, you seem to keep _trying_ to get my attention—for the last week, _really_ , so now you have it,” Cullen’s hand moved forward, sliding a piece forward marginally on the board and handing over the move to Dorian—a mistake, since it left his bishop completely open to be taken with little consequence, which was previously wreaking havoc on Dorian’s side of the board.   
  
“Simply put, it’s a fumbling mess,” Cullen’s cheeks started to flare red, his mouth opening angrily—one thing that truly got him annoyed was insulting the Inquisition. Dorian cut him off before he could stop, “Now, don’t go getting yourself into a hot mess. That’s for me to do later. I’m just giving your little hobby here some…  constructive criticism.” Cullen’s face had went red, and Dorian was sure that he was going to go on anyway—give him a tongue lashing as it was, but the Commander seemed to think better on it, biting back his words with a grimace. Dorian took that as a sign to continue.   
  
He cleared his throat, “As far as I could tell, we’re supposed to be the good guys, but half the rumors make civilians sound half terrified of us. I don’t know what decisions you are making in the war room, but if none of you start to agree on something, we’re going to keep looking like we’re pulling in five different directions—which apparently we are, according to the tavern keeper.” Dorian leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. A gust of wind sent the leaves above them rustling, and Cullen sighed.   
  
“We’re trying. I can’t even argue with you over that… It’s not even the way the Inquisitor’s running things, it’s just that one bad thing after another…” Flustered as ever, Cullen trailed off, rubbing a tired hand over his face. Dorian had not been blind to Cullen’s current mental state. He had noticed that dark circles were forming under the blonde mans eyes, and that the whites of his eyes looked more red by times. Dorian would be lying if he said he wasn’t worrying—but he also wasn’t the one to ask. A few times in the tower didn’t mean that he was suddenly the Commander’s support system.   
  
“Yes, well, the Inquisitor could definitely do to get his own head in the game and stop acting like this is a game,” That got a rise out of Cullen, who knocked one of the pieces over and looked at Dorian with fire in his eyes that the Tevinter knew he would pay for, “Simply put, he needs to start thinking before he does things. Ah, I know! Champion of this and that and whatever—Seeing as _I_ never knew him, I don’t have to act like I like him—“  
  
“Dorian.” Cullen’s voice stopped the Tevinter, who was gesturing at the chessboard. Looking up at the Commander, Dorian leaned back again, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. In the distance, a number of chantry woman had heard his raised voice, and looked over curiously. More outbursts to feed the rumors _. Just_ what he needed. They spun tales around him and Cullen, faster than Dorian could possibly know how to handle them. Even now, he didn’t particularly care.   
  
“Dorian…” Cullen sighed, and Dorian felt like something else had been on the tip of his tongue, but the Commander just rose his hands up, rubbing at his temples and squeezing his eyes shut, before he gestured at him, “This again. Eluding to things, but not making any attempts to actually change it—“   
  
“It’s not my place to make changes—“  
  
“It’s the people’s place to make changes,” Cullen frowned at him, and Dorian had the feeling that he had managed to infuriate the man, even if his voice remained cold and calm as it always did when he was holding in what was truly bothering him, “You act like the inquisition is not doing what it’s suppose to, but it is. Even Varric, Solas, Iron Bull—Sera, for gods sakes, are making efforts to help change this Inquisition for the best, but all you can do is talk badly of it to me and then retreat back to your library—“  
  
“That’s a little uncalled for, Cullen,” Dorian reached forward a hand to move his piece on the board, realizing a moment later that it was a mistake, but already having took his hand off the piece—he could not move it now. Locked in place, just like he felt at this moment, “What do I want changed, then? I want you people to stop acting like mages wrought hell upon the Earth since they found out about magic. To stop acting like the Venatori are just pesky flies. To stop acting like what happened with Alexius is okay—“  
  
“Okay. Fine.” It was very abrupt. A means to an end, and Dorian knew it. Cullen’s cheeks were burning, and Dorian knew that while his face still looked neutral that Cullen could tell by the white clench of his knuckles that neutral was far from what he could describe himself. They argued. Such things happened. It was only a matter of time that a truly bad one came up, but it always ended like this. Cullen would end it and run away, and Dorian wouldn’t bother to chase it because Cullen proved again and again that there was no point to it.   
  
Cullen’s voice still sounded strained, but he tried to pass it off as calm, “Gloat all you like, I have this one.”   
  
“Are you… _sassing_ me, Commander? I didn’t know you had it in you.” That managed to bring a slight smirk out of the Commander, but as Dorian reached forward to make his next move, a shadow fell across the chessboard and Cullen immediately sat to attention. Dorian, on the other hand, only tilted his head to look up at who had approached. In the morning light, the man managed to look formidable, but Dorian still managed to sit up and manage an amiable smile for the Inquisitor—who he couldn’t help but not be fond off.   
  
“Come to enjoy my inevitable victory, Hawke?”   
  
“I can’t say it looks exactly in your favor, Dorian,” Dorian couldn’t pretend that he was an unpleasant man. The Champion of Kirkwall was far from unpleasant, really. A warrior in everyway possible, and as cheery as Dorian would have been if he put a bit more effort into it, Hawke was everyone’s personal favorite… except for the Tevinter himself. The only people who knew this, however, was Cullen and the occasional drunkard that overheard his own drunken ramblings at the tavern, and no one was about to say that his words were really important when under the influence of the swill they call red wine here.

“You _hurt_ me, my lord Inquisitor.” Dorian couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm from being thick on his lips, however.   
  
Looking more than a little irritated with him, Cullen started to rise from his seat, grinning like a puppy looking for praise at the Inquisitor, “Do you need me, Inquisitor? I’ll come with you right away.” Hawke waved his hand, and Cullen slowly lowered himself back into his seat.

  
“I’d rather see this game play out,” His smile was friendly, and Dorian couldn’t help the smirk. Anyone who liked the mechanics of a good chess game was in his good books—he just didn’t like the way the man was managing to terrify half of Thedas into obedience. Although, that was undeniably a bit of an exaggeration. The Inquisitor didn’t _mean_ to do it. It was his specialty to exaggerate though. Hawke fell silent, crossing his arms, and Dorian turned back to the game.   
  
Cullen looked tense, and Dorian was sure that he was worrying that he would say something about his current opinion of the Inquisition. Dorian was no idiot, however, and until he decided he had spent enough time in Skyhold, he had no plans to speak his mind, lest he get himself kicked out of the entire thing. It was a real enough situation to consider, and Dorian wasn’t going to find it out the hard way. Instead, he reached forward and—after pondering the best move for an extended period of time, moved his rook forward.   
  
“Checkmate.” Cullen’s voice brought up a swear in his head, and Dorian leaned back in his chair.   
  
“You’ve bested me, Cullen. Not for lack of me going easy on you, however,” He grinned at the Commander, who couldn’t help the slightly red tint from coloring his cheeks. Dorian knew that Hawke would see, but he could care less, and instead went to stand, “As enjoyable as this morning has already proven to be, I think I have a dark and dreary library to return too. Those texts won’t read themselves—“  
  
“Inquisitor! Someone’s here to see you—it’s rather—uh—It’s urgent.”  
  
All three men turned to see the approaching lackey. One of Cullen’s men, most likely, but he looked rather flustered, and puffed when he stopped in front of Hawke, as if he had spent half the time running around the castle just trying to find the champion. It was very likely, as Hawke had a tendency of vanishing into thin air and leaving little room for anyone to find him. Dorian envied him for that. His ability to just vanish without a trace, giving himself as much free time as he’d like, was a good trait to have. In his explorations of the hold, Dorian had once stumbled upon a dusty little office with many open texts deep in one of the farthest corners of Skyhold. He had jumped to the assumption, but decided not to rat Hawke out on his little hiding spot, no matter how much he might like it for himself.   
  
“Report, officer.” Hawke’s smile seemed to set the man at ease, who stopped wheezing as if his lungs were trying to come up and instead bowed before continuing.   
  
“An elf, sir. Here to see you. Says she has a very important message. Couldn’t stop her from coming in, really. She just _appeared_ in the building—“  
  
“You do realize our gates are open to visitors, officer?” Cullen’s voice sounded droll, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. Dorian watched the exchange with a so-far lack of interest, finding the entire thing somewhat ridiculous. Cullen was right. They had a steady traffic of people coming through their front gates. The people who weren’t scared to come liked to see Skyhold, in all its glory. For good reason, too. When approaching the castle, Dorian had to stop and stare at it himself sometimes. Anything this big on the side of a cliff was bound to make some mouths drop.   
  
“No sir, you don’t _understand_ —“ Cullen’s eyebrows turned downwards into a stern frown, and the officer immediately began to stutter.   
  
“Don’t scare him, Commander.” Dorian laughed, and the officr took a couple of deep breaths before continuing.   
  
“When I say she just appeared, sir, I mean she literally… just appeared. Rogue or something, sir. Dropped from the ceiling and landed on the throne. Thought the guards were going to impale her there and then…”  
  
Now _that_ wasn’t normal. People didn’t often jump from the ceiling and land on the throne. Whoever she was, she was lucky that the soldier’s stationed near the throne hadn’t had her killed immediately for aggressive behavior.   
  
“She _fell_ from the ceiling?” Hawke sounded incredulous, and the officer nodded.   
  
“Yes, sir. We were as shocked as you. I honestly can’t explain it very well…”  
  
“ _Try._ ” When Hawke used that voice, Dorian knew that he meant business. It was a voice that carried. It made a number of the Chantry hags look up from across the garden, and Cullen shifted his feet, some sort of inbred obedience making him want to react to that voice and _march._ As for Dorian, it just made him snort, which got him a fascinating venomous glare from Cullen that he never thought he would see.   
  
The captain coughed a number of times, and finally seemed to get his bearings, “You see, sir. She’s an elf. Stubborn like them. Sat herself right down in the throne and refused to move. We all ordered her away but she said we didn’t want to mess with her. Keeper of her clan, she is—“  
  
“Her last name is Lavellan.” Leliana’s voice came from behind the officer, and every male looked over at her with slight shock. Cullen shifted with discomfort, and Hawke paused before clearing his throat.   
  
“Did I hear you wrong, Leliana?”  
  
Dorian’s eyes passed between the three, who had lost all interest in both him and the officer. Whatever this ‘Lavellan’ business meant, it went over his head easily, but it had caused a stir in the two advisors—and more importantly the inquisitor. Hawke’s lips were pressed tightly together, and Leliana looked pale enough to be ill. Cullen, on the other hand, was rubbing his face, and seemed almost angry.   
  
“What do you mean, _Lavellan?”_ said Cullen.

Leliana crossed her arms, looking displeased with the hostile reaction, “It’s not my fault her last name is that,” She paced closer to the Inquisitor, who took a step back—if there was one person that had always seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable in Dorian’s eyes, it was Leliana—and for good reason, she was intimidating, “She’s Lavellan, and that’s all that matters. Josephine is with her now.”   
  
“Now, explain all this Lavellan nonsense—I royally _detest_ being left in the dark,” Dorian finally spoke up, and the four other people present looked over at him immediately, and with slight surprise, as if they had thought he wasn’t there. They were quite wrong, in fact, and Dorian raised his eyebrows, an expression that said that he demanded a response. In the meantime, people in the background were starting to channel out into the main hall of Skyhold, having overheard the commotion and wanting to get a glimpse of it.   
  
Cullen cleared his throat, “Lavellan is the… Clan name… Last name, if you’d like, of the boy that was at the Conclave.”  
  
Well, that could only mean one person. Dorian wasn’t daft, and he put the pieces together quickly enough. Whatever amused smirk he’d been sporting till then was replaced with a frown, and he stood up straighter. The Conclave, the cause of all this inquisition nonsense, was filled with muddled rumors and stories talking about seeing some Herald, someone who closed the fatal rift that was turning the world inside out into the fade. None of these rumors were straight, and the tales got more and more extravagant as more and more time passed since the incident.   
  
“Well then, what _are_ we standing around here for?” Leliana seemed to agree with Dorian’s words, because she turned and moved across the gardens. Hawke and Cullen shared a look, before following after her. Dorian was tempted not to follow. Now that the garden had cleared out, it was pleasantly silent, and the light was relaxing and soft. The birds singing almost _didn’t_ give him a headache now—but he was also curious about this so-called _Lavellan_.   
  
Whoever had stood at the Conclave that day and stepped out of the mess while everyone else died had been as lost to the stories as everyone else. Dorian just had the vague sense that whoever it was had been male, and had a glowing hand. Varric and Solas refused to talk about it—probably sworn by the Chantry, and whenever mentioning it to Cassandra she just got grumpy and acted like the man hadn’t closed the rift and then still gotten treated like a prisoner. Dorian didn’t often take badly to such things—but saving the world usually got you a bit of a jailbreak, right?  
  
The hall was definitely bustling with people. It almost felt like everyone in Skyhold had decided to try and fit into the room, and the four people, even with the Inquisitor now at the front, had trouble struggling through the crowd. Only the area around the throne seemed clear, and just as the officer had stated, the throne itself was not unoccupied. 

She was a small thing. That was Dorian’s initial impression of her, but she was also formidable. Curly hair or no, her eyes pierced down at them, and the markings on her face, the tattoos all Dalish had, were not light like many elves opted for. No, they were as dark and thick as the eyebrows that threatened to be respected, and Dorian could already feel a smile turning up the corners of his lips as this girl shifted forward in the throne, leaning on elbow on her leg and resting her head on her fist, as if she had done this a million times before.   
  
Josephine’s voice sounded absolutely frantic, “You simply don’t understand, miss, and I mean no disrespect, but that throne is exclusively for the Inquisitor—not for—not for—“   
  
This strange elf’s voice rang out, and Dorian had the impression that she was someone who could give orders—who would stand up against this entire room and declare them her own—and he _liked_ her for it.   
  
“No, you see, the _thing_ is, that this is just another seat that you put a label on, and I’m not really feeling like moving until I get the answers that none of you will give me.”   
  
They had stopped at the bottom of the steps, and Leliana stepped up to give Hawke a hushed whisper, “She hasn’t actually made any demands. I don’t think she’s as confident as she says she is. Might be bait—a trap, and could be dangerous, but we have arrows trained on her, and I’d be more than willing—“   
  
“That won’t be necessary, Leliana.”   
  
Dorian was glad that the inquisitor had not just assumed that force was the best approach. He wasn’t as blunt headed of a warrior as the mage thought. No, instead Hawke moved up the steps, climbing to the very top and stopping in front of the woman, who eyed him with careful apprehension and challenging eyes. Hawke’s hands met behind his back, and Dorian could see why he was also a leader. He demanded respect, and it managed to take some of this tiny elf’s fire away—it made her seem more… mortal, and not like some warrior goddess of some sort. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Solas push his way through the crowd, looking at the girl with a curious gaze.   
  
Dorian had never been a fan of Solas. He was creepy.  
  
“I hope my advisor hasn’t been too much of a bad hostess, Miss Lavellan,” Hawke smiled, and Josephine looked outright horrified. This wasn’t exactly the normal guest, however, and she couldn’t have been expected to know how to react.   
  
Hawke continued, clearing his throat to demand all attention on him, “Now, if you please, so I can gladly get this over with and get my seat back, what are you here for?”  
  
The woman stood up, and Leliana shifted beside Dorian, obviously ready to give the signal at the first sign of trouble. The dark haired elf simply scowled at Hawke, though, and pointed not a knife, but a finger at him.   
  
“ _Tell_ me where my brother is.”


	3. Chapter 2

That caused a stir in anyone who had an idea of just where her brother actually was, or more importantly who he was.  
  
It moved through the room. That pointing finger had started something, and Dorian could physically see it. Faces turning down. Feet shifting. Friends sharing glances. A murmur that grew as more and more people started to whisper to each other. Solas, raising a hand and gripping his chin in an inquisitive manner. Leliana, moving away from Dorian’s side to go and speak with one of her men—a soldier who looks very unsuspicious otherwise. Cullen, whose eyes went wide and his face very pale. And Cassandra, whose lips went tight, grim—she _knew,_ Dorian could tell. Everyone reacted in some way, except for Dorian, who kept that inquisitive little grin on his face, simply watching the situation unfold.  
  
Hawke, like Dorian, seemed to not know himself—at least not enough to give an answer right away.  
  
“Why don’t we take this into the war room, Miss Lavellan? We can share a glass of wine.”  
  
“I don’t think that works for me.” Her voice caused another stir in the room. Hawke’s shoulders visibly stiffened, which made the guards near the scene all tense. Josephine’s hand rose to her mouth, where she tapped her lips twice before attempting to reconcile with the tiny elven woman again.  
  
“Surely, Miss Lavellan, you understand just how informal this is—we’d much rather provide you with some of our commodities and talk in peace, perhaps take a seat—“ Dorian saw the glint in the woman’s eyes, who did manage a smile, startlingly white teeth flashing as she looked first at Hawke and then at Josephine.  
  
“I have a seat right here,” Dorian felt like he was watching some sort of Tevinter drama unfold as this Lavellan went and sat herself directly back in the throne, crossing one leg and looking as regal as any queen he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. His shoulders shook, and he had to forcefully stop himself from laughing out loud, lest Cullen’s glare bore straight through his skull. The elf kept speaking, “I also suggest telling your little guard dogs to back down, or else you’ll have my entire clan on your doorstep by morn. Now, _tell_ me what I want to know, or else I’ll pick up this entire throne and take it out of here.”  
  
 _Dear god, they’ll write songs about this woman._ Solas, too, seemed to be having trouble keeping himself from laughing—Dorian had never seen so much mirth in his expression before, especially when the subject at hand was a Dalish elf, of all things. Dorian half expected the woman to get murdered there and then. Instead, Hawke gestured with his hand, and the guards all moved back a few paces. Dorian could swear that a smile turned up one side of the mans mouth.  
  
“As you wish, Miss Lavellan.”  
  
“It’s Malinche.” _Malinche_. Fitting, as Dorian’s mind automatically flitted to the history behind it. Some queen who reigned absolute destruction in her wake, if he was correct. A former slave, known in history as an evil and scheming temptress. Elven, too. This woman was definitely stepping forward to fill some legends shoes.  
  
“Glad we’re on first name basis, Malinche. Hawke, Inquisitor of the Inquisition—“ He held out one hand, expecting it to be shaken, but Malinche made no move to do any such thing.  
  
“I know who you are,” _Maker’s balls_ , the _mouth_ on this one! _She might just rival Sera._ Leliana looked like she wanted to walk up there and remove the Dalish from the throne herself, but Hawke just laughed, taking the entire situation in good fortune. Better than Dorian would have taken it, for sure. If he had a throne, he’d have a small bit of possessiveness that ensured only _he_ was sitting in it. As it was, he’d always thought he’d look better in this particular throne. As it turned out, someone much smaller pulled it off just as well—not better. _Never_ better. 

Hawke cleared his throat, pulling his hand back with good nature. He turned around, face observing the crowd that had formed, and Dorian could see the conflict in his eyes. No matter what he did, it seemed as if he was in for a scene. Remove her by force, and he’d be taunted for the cruelty of his hand and judgment. Tell her whatever she wanted, and he’d look like he was easily beaten. There was very little middle ground to tread, and Dorian could practically see the sweat forming on his forehead. Oh, it made him want to laugh!  
  
Hawke beckoned to Cassandra, who frowned but moved up the steps to stand beside him. She eyed the Dalish woman with disdain, but Hawke smiled at her brightly, and it seemed to defrost some of the tension.  
  
“You care to tell our unexpected guest what she wants to know, Cassandra?”  
  
It was very brief. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it. Dorian, however, was _not_ most people. He would not be considered of noble blood, or a Tevinter Magister, if he hadn’t at some point learnt how to pick up on the little things that make people tick. In Cassandra, it was her face, and this only went to prove it. Her expression subtly shifted. A tension in her jaw, the harsh press of her lips, and a narrowing of her eyes that said that she had to think about what to say. An oddity, since it was a simple enough question, that Dorian would have thought he knew the answer too, but that was enough to make him think that whatever was going to come out of Cassandra’s mouth wasn’t the truth.  
  
“The Lavellan boy was exiled, and ordered back to his Clan and to not return over the Waking Sea,” Her voice was blunt, rude even, obviously not caring for this Malinche. As Dorian expected—Exile was a common and one of the most gracious convictions of magic work that the Chantry didn’t agree with. Yet he still felt like it didn’t fit. Malinche, on the other hand, eased back into her-not-so-her throne, frowning slightly as the room erupted into whispers. Their supposed Herald, thought to have gone with the rift when it closed, actually _exiled._ Obviously just a rumor, people coming up with glamorous stories to fill in what was kept _hush hush_ by the Inquisition. Leliana had sent the man off, and now looked like she was trying to figure out a way to defuse the room.  

Hawke cleared his throat, speaking over the din of the room, “We’ve done as you’ve asked, Malinche. If you could step into another room with us now?”  
  
Those piercing eyes studied the two people in front of her, but whatever fire she’d came here with seemed to be fizzing out. There was an extended silence from her, that made Dorian want to yell ‘Get on with it!’, but she finally stood from the chair with a silent nod. The crowd was obviously disappointed, hoping for more words from the spunky elf that was apparently the sister of the ‘Herald of Andraste’. Even Solas seemed rather disappointed, the mirth having gone from his face, and Dorian had the suspicion that he had been enjoying the mischief caused by this small Dalish woman. It was no surprise to Dorian that Solas followed the advisors as they moved towards the War Room, and Dorian took that as a sign that he could as well.  
  
As expected, he was able to slip through the door and into the room Josephine had designated as her office, standing in a corner with his arms crossed. Cullen gave him another dirty look, obviously not approving of his decision to invade on what should likely be a more private conversation, but Dorian figured privacy had been thrown to the wind by this point. Josephine rushed in behind her desk, taking a seat at her chair. Dorian always had a vague sense that the desk gave her a sense of comfort—a shield of sorts for her own battles, so different from the ones out in the field. The Dalish woman went and stood by one of the bookshelves, obviously on guard, and Dorian noticed the dual daggers she wielded on her waist for the first time. She had not come unarmed, and for good reason. Dorian had no doubt she knew just how much danger she had put herself in.  
  
Hawke looked strained, but kept his soft smile, “Now that you know the fate of your brother, Miss Lavellan, I suspect there’s another reason for you being here?”  
  
The elf visibly twitched at the title, but didn’t comment on it again. In fact, Dorian thought she looked more surprised by the fact that he hadn’t accused her of trials and beheadment. She slowly shook her head, speaking in a softer tone than the one she had used so forcefully in the hall, but still obviously very determined, “As… comforting as it is to hear about his exile and not…” She stopped, deciding not to finish the sentence, “It has been months, and he hasn’t returned to the Clan. My clan is isolated as is, and we heard about the Conclave late. We received just one letter from him after that, and when he didn’t return, I decided to come and find him myself.”  
  
Hawke looked visibly troubled by the news, “And you said he never showed up, no word—“  
  
If the door hadn’t burst open at that moment, Dorian would have had more time to analyze just how uncomfortable Cassandra was looking by the minute. As it was, Leliana stormed in, her face dreadfully dark, and Dorian raised his eyebrows as she stopped by Hawke, eyes like daggers as she looked at Malinche.  
  
“Completely unbelievable. You _will_ be locked up—“  
  
The room broke out into a flurry of activity all at once. Leliana took another step forward. Malinche’s hand snapped to her daggers. Solas’s voice rang out with a, “Not necessary, I think.” And Josephine stood up with a, “Leliana!” in that hissing voice Dorian had only ever heard when she talked to Leliana. Cullen’s hand was at his sword, moving to stand in front of the Inquisitor. Even Dorian found himself stepping forward with a, “Let’s not become completely uncivilized brutes, shall we?”  
  
It was Hawke raising his hand and asking for silence that made everyone settle, even if Leliana did it reluctantly. Somehow, the Inquisitor’s eyes still looked mirthful, and Dorian had to applaud him at his composure—or at least at his humor as he spoke, “Now, Leliana, is there some sort of punishment for elves dropping into our thrones in the big book of Inquisition rules?”  
  
Malinche looked absolutely incredulous, and Dorian was rather sure anyone else would have had their ear cut off if it had not been coming from the Inquisitor. As it was, Leliana sputtered, “This is entirely not the time for jokes, Inquisitor—“  
  
“Good thing I’m only joking in the practical sense. We won’t be locking Miss Lavellan up. She’s here worried about her brother, not to try and slit my throat—I _think_ ,” His eyes glanced at her daggers pointedly, and the Dalish dropped her hands from them as if she hadn’t even realized they were still there.  
  
“Well, I’m glad someone here isn’t acting like she murdered the Empress of Orlais,” Dorian figured he probably shouldn’t have said anything, because Cullen looked like he wanted to wring his neck, and Josephine could have fainted. Everyone in this room, taking everything so dramatically—it was going to give him the type of migraine that could only be cured by ale. As tempting as it was to tell them all to loosen up, he figured it was best to go back to just leaning in his corner.  
  
The door opened again, and Dorian thought Josephine would tell someone to lock the damn thing by the look on her face. Instead, Varric walked in, pausing to eye up the crowd, “The whole gangs here, hm. Give the elf a break, I’m sure the lass doesn’t need you all crowding her.” His voice was good-natured, though, and Dorian knew his presence immediately put Hawke at ease, who seemed to agree and took a few steps back from the elf. Cassandra, on the other hand, continued to hover and hadn’t removed her hand from the hilt of her sword. Her face was stoic again, though—defense as strong as her shield.  
  
There was a moment of silence, which Malinche finally broke, “I… want to get back to the manner at hand. I’m looking for my brother.”  
  
Leliana’s face became strained again, and Dorian could see her clenching her jaw, “So you keep saying.”  
  
Lavellan gave her a glare that could have cut steel, “I didn’t come here for no leads. Exiled isn’t enough. He’s not a criminal—not in my eyes, and I need help finding him.”  
  
Varric continued to keep the peace, “We can at least help with that, can’t we, Hawke?”  
  
Hawke nodded slowly, and it was clear that he was feeling the strain of the conversation. Dorian wasn’t surprised. The entire situation was ridiculous. Hawke continued on in the same calm, if slightly taunting, voice he used for these sorts of matters, “Yes, of course. Cassandra, in what direction did he head last time…?”  
  
Cassandra shifted, not liking to be caught in the spotlight again—Dorian expected she also didn’t like being scrutinized by him, however, “Well, he was planning on moving through the Hinterlands, and over the Storm Coast. A pretty direct trip, and not too difficult, even for an elf…”  
  
“Not difficult? You guys didn’t even think to escort him out?” Malinche’s voice took on that rough, fiery edge that had so enraptured the crowd out in the hall, “Do you have any idea what it’s like for mages in the Hinterland right now—?”  
  
It wasn’t the mage and Templar war that had Dorian feeling tense, however. No, an inkling of an idea had taken root in the form of the research and letters he had been receiving as of late. Venatori activity was growing heavy, nearly in a direct line across Thedas—a wall to capture what they need. Brutal and cruel, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise to Dorian if it turned out that they were involved—but already he found himself hoping he was wrong—but if this brother had stumbled upon one of the groups—a group that liked to prey on lone elves, for sure…  
  
Dorian didn’t want to think about it.  
  
Solas finally spoke up, his voice automatically adding a calming energy to the room, and Dorian expected that it had something to do with him channeling the Fade, “Hopefully this is just a mix up. The Inquisition was barely formed when the judgment was passed on this…” He paused to look at Malinche who blinked and looked confused for a moment, before nodding with realization.  
  
“Lúthian. His name is Lúthian.”  
  
Solas gave a nod and a soft smile, which made Dorian already dislike the way he looked at Malinche, “Yes. Lúthian most likely was very capable of traversing the Hinterlands on his own, although the entire situation has been kept very quiet—“  
  
Josephine spoke up, covering up wherever Solas was going with the topic—another thing to get under Dorian’s skin, “Well! We know where he was headed and the suspected locations he would have stopped. Leliana’s scouts can check on the areas, get any information available, and report it back to us? Then we move from there?” She seemed very convinced it was best to end this entire conversation where it was, and Dorian was starting to agree—the room was too crowded, and Malinche’s face was very, _very_ pale with worry.  
  
Hawke gave a nod, “Yes, that’s most likely the best way to handle this, if Miss Lavellan doesn’t mind hanging around for a day or two?”  
  
Malinche shook her head, her chest falling as she gave a sigh of relief. Dorian would have felt the same, after the way this entire situation had spun out. Leliana cleared her throat, “It shouldn’t take long at all, really. Tomorrow evening, I would predict, if I get word out fast enough.”  
  
“Make that happen,” Hawke’s smile was still slightly hard, not pleased with Leliana’s outburst. He turned back to Malinche, “We can provide you a warm bed and some food, and you won’t be restricted to any part of the building. Feel free to act just as any other guest would.” Cassandra and Leliana both looked prepared to protest, but a shared glare from Josephine made them both stop.

Malinche nodded, looking sheepish, “Yes, well. Thank you, Inquisitor Hawke. I’m afraid to say that I’m not actually as flashy as I was in the hall, but none of my letters were answered, and—“  
  
“We never received them,” On a dismissive note, enough to make Malinche’s ears go slightly red, but a scowl also to fix on her lips, Hawke gave her a nod and moved aside to talk to Leliana and Varric out of earshot. Malinche seemed lost for a moment, and Solas looked prepared to swoop in, but Dorian stepped forward first, taking the opportunity to lay a hand on her elbow. She jumped, but his words were meant to be comforting.

“You look like you could use a drink,” He grinned down at the considerably shorter elf, watching Solas out of the corner of his eye. The apostate hesitated, before turning away and moving over to speak with Varric in a hushed tone, “So much _whispering_ in one room!”  
  
To his surprise, she didn’t shy away, instead arching one of those formidable eyebrows at him, “Are you sure you want to be seen parading around with the girl who just defiled the Inquisition’s throne?”  
  
“It’s a positively atrocious thing, that throne. Those spikes? I have no idea _what_ they were thinking. Perhaps they’ll now have a reason to replace it—but I’d never be that lucky, would I?” The words had the desired effect, drawing a small smile out of Malinche.  
  
“Yes, well, I’m glad I could be of hand.” As she spoke, he steered them towards the door.  
  
“Plus, I can’t just get away without speaking with someone who likes a little flare as much as I do! Dorian, of House Pavus—I hope you don’t take offence to that—so many people spit when they hear it, but I see no reason to hide it. How about I treat you to an ale? Piss poor stuff, you’ll have to accept my apologies.”  
  
Malinche was obviously still taken aback, but once eyeing him up, Dorian saw her face slip into one of acceptance, “Yes, actually, I think I’d like that very much—as long as you’re buying.”  
  
Dorian laughed, drawing one more glare from Cullen, who had joined the other advisors in their discussion, likely reassessing what had just happened, but Dorian couldn’t care, “Oh, you’re going to be an absolute delight—I can just _tell_. Now, follow me and tell me about this herald of a brother you have.”  
  
Someone had to ask the real questions, after all.  
  



	4. Chapter 3

The tavern had quickly enough become one of Dorian’s favorite places to occupy himself. He was often found there, as the night wore on and especially after returning from the fieldwork, enjoying one of their ales—no matter how much he complained about the inquisitions liquor being vile. He enjoyed the soft music that always played throughout the building, and the loud, raucous yells of the chargers. He had even taken to drinking with the Bull, who sometimes gave him looks that proved his suspicions about the Qunari’s intentions—if their talk on the field hadn’t already done that. He knew that the large oaf of a man wouldn’t make a move until whatever he had with Cullen had blown over, however.   
  
Now, Dorian slid in behind one of the stools at the bar, pulling a stool aside for Malinche to sit at. She took the seat cautiously, eyes scanning every small corner of the room, judging every face in the tavern. Every noise seemed to make her jump, and he wished she would release the stiffness out of her back, but he supposed that came from being a rouge—or so he assumed. She didn’t seem like a mage, for sure. Not like her brother.   
  
“Two ales, kind sir! Strongest that you have on the house—and try to get us something a little more than mediocre—I know how you struggle with that,” Dorian’s playful wink was all that kept him from getting cuffed on the ear, and Malinche looked like she wanted to laugh, but instead coughed into her fist, turning away to observe the bard, currently singing about Sera and her misadventures. 

“So, Lady Lavellan, tell me about yourself, since you seem so mysterious, and I do _love_ a good story,” Even as Dorian said it, he got a scowl out of the otherwise sheepish looking Dalish woman. Those fiery eyes turned to look at him, but her voice was mainly calm—if anything, she just sounded like she wanted to get her point across.   
  
“When I said not to call me Lavellan, I meant it. It’s my clan name. I prefer Malinche,” The ales were set in front of them, and Dorian took a sip—off course, it didn’t taste as good as he would have expected, but his little swing at the bartender had likely earned him more than just a glare. Malinche stared into the cup, seeming wary of whatever it was that was in the mug, before taking a cautious sip. The crinkle of her nose was rather endearing, and she set the cup aside. Dorian chose to speak then.   
  
“Wonderful! I prefer Dorian, Lady Malinche—“   
  
“You can drop the lady too—“  
  
“Oh, how glad I am we’re already talking at ease,” Behind his half smile, however, Dorian was being truthful. He liked this girl, and she was the first interesting thing, at least in his opinion, that had happened to the Inquisition in weeks. He was surprised more people weren’t swarming in here, trying to get a better look at the woman who had dropped from the ceiling. The tavern was often where people went to get away, though—and not everyone’s first choice of company was the people inside the bar. To put it simply, not everyone was him, “How about this clan of yours?” He took another draw from his drink, as she delicately picked hers back up.   
  
“Clan Lavellan. A rather normal Elven settlement. We’re one of the… larger names, I suppose—“  
  
“Let me guess—you’re the kings daughter, running off against his wishes to find your elusive and rebellious brother?”   
  
She rolled her eyes, the look of scorn bad enough to burn, but the slight upturn of her lips seemed to indicate that she was amused, “We don’t have _kings_ , we have _keepers_ … But, you could say that I’m running away against his wishes. He can’t make many wishes right now, however.”   
  
“Now, that just sounds ominous,” A loud cheer from the chargers tables as someone won and dragged loud, clanking coins across the countertop filled the room, and Dorian’s eyes watched with curious anticipation as her hands rested on her daggers. Even the early sunlight flooding in the window couldn’t seem to put her at ease—but he had dragged her into the tavern in broad daylight, and not everyone occupied the building as early as him and Bull did.   
  
“Our Keeper is very sick, but he’s also very old, so it was… too be expected. He’ll be passing away soon, and I’m next in line by succession, although I don’t think I’m anywhere near prepared,” That made her take another drink of her ale, but Dorian couldn’t help the look of incredulity that passed over his face as he arched one eyebrow at her.   
  
“You’re next in line to become Keeper, successor to a man on his death bed, and yet you’re here?”   
  
Her glare cut glass, and Dorian had to work to keep that aloof expression on his face as her words bit out too, “I didn’t _come_ here to escape my duties, if that’s what you’re thinking. My brother got sent to the Conclave in my place, and I’m here to find him.”   
  
A noble sentiment. Dorian leaned forward onto the tavern’s bar, eyeing her from the side, “Yes, well, that’s a perfectly fine goal, but just exactly how did your brother end up at the Conclave in the first place?”  
  
“He was sent because I couldn’t leave with the state the Keeper was in. He’s been this way for… months.” Dorian thought it sounded a little farfetched. The successor stays behind to keep watch over the nearly dead Keeper, but the minute her brother goes missing, uproots and chases him across Thedas—but Dorian also supposed that he had never shared that same fault of loyalty towards family members, or even the same type of love.   
  
“Besides, he should never have been sent. He’s never been… very capable of handling situations like that. He’s not a leader, he just never has been,” The Dalish woman sighed, taking another, larger drink of the ale, before setting the mug back down on the counter with a forceful _crack!_ “That was always me. Everyone talked about how I was going to go so far, but… I think I ended up casting a shadow over him in the process, and that’s why he was so eager to…” _Run off, get himself possibly killed, at least exiled_. Dorian filled in the words himself, but now… now he couldn’t help but feel that sharp touch of pity for this brother. _I ended up casting a shadow over him in the process_.   
  
“What about you? Tell me about you?” Her sudden change of tone, the sharp look in her gaze, made him almost flinch, but he just wagged a finger at her.   
  
“Alas, that’s a story for a different day. Besides, you must have something good to say about him.” Malinche gave a soft laugh, grinning into the cup, and the radiant look on her face made it all the more clear just why she was here.   
  
“Of course I do. He’s my brother. He might be an… utter imbecile by times, but I still love him,” Taking a sip, she glanced at Dorian cautiously over the cup, “He would have liked you, but then again, he got excited over all men who weren’t elven and had nice hair.”   
  
“Well, honestly, who wouldn’t like me? Next to impossible, really,” It was always flattering to hear such things, even coming from such a grim topic of discussion.   
  
“God, you’re as arrogant as he is,” She laughed, “But he had much less charm—I was always scared for him. No matter who he spoke with, he managed to muck it up. Either he was too rude, or he just ended up blurting out the first thing that popped into his head. I used to cringe when other clans visited,” Dorian nodded, setting down his mug and indicating for the bartender to refill it for him while his eyes remained steady on the Dalish woman. Whoever the boy at the Chantry had been, this didn’t sound like him. Tales of fire and bravery and some ‘god-to-be’ still circulating around that tale.   
  
“So you’re meaning to tell me that the almighty Herald of Andraste wasn’t charismatic, glowed, wielded two swords made from dragon scales, and was almost as handsome as me?”   
  
The laugh out of her nearly made her choke on her ale, and Malinche had to lean back and clear her throat repeatedly before she could speak again, “Oh, _creators_ , no,” She paused to laugh again, before she said, “I mean, he’s handsome enough, I suppose, but he had the charismatic skills of a nug who just got spawned from a dead demon.”   
  
“Oh dear, that sounds atrocious,” Even as Dorian picked up his returned mug again,  he couldn’t help but feel skeptical. How exactly was this boy, who Malinche described as being… far from any sort of hero, or threat for that matter, praised as a herald and yet treated like the darkspawn itself when his name came up in conversation?   
  
Apparently, Dorian wasn’t the only one wondering.   
  
“Sounds like a lovely lad, but this doesn’t add up, does it, sparkler?” Varric’s voice was loud, even in the din of the Tavern, and both him and Malinche turned to face the dwarf, who had apparently entered the tavern and listened in on the latter half of their conversation.   
  
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Malinche’s voice was skeptical, but Varric didn’t answer her until ordering a drink himself, sipping at the ale with a speculative look.   
  
“Now, kid, I don’t wanna worry you—“  
  
“You’re already doing that.” Her voice took on the steely quality again, and Dorian had to revel at how exactly she managed to transform from this slightly sheepish, if still fiery thing, to this leader who he could instantly picture leading a clan—especially when she was so damned tiny.   
  
“Suppose I am,” Varric grinned. His voice was always amiable, but even he seemed grim over this, and Dorian expected that was part of the reason why he was here—because he needed to get this off his chest, and thought that Malinche had the right to know. That seemed to be how the dwarf acted. Always about the righteous, “To keep it short, it wasn’t the Inquisition that judged the boy, but the Chantry,”   
  
It didn’t seem to mean anything to Malinche, but Dorian definitely felt like it meant something, humming into the mug and eyeing up Varric’s face. He had always found the expressive dwarf hard to read, and he suspected that was of Varric’s own doing. Some people just knew how to show the right amount of emotion, amusement, laughter, and yet still hide the little things that gave people away.   
  
“So you’re saying—?”  
  
“Exactly what you’re probably thinking, sparkler. We can’t really judge, but everything about what happened to your brother—” He raised the glass in Malinche’s general direction, but that worried frown was back on her face again—so soon after Dorian had managed to wipe it off, too, “—Was kept very quiet. Nothing came in or out of that room, and nobody saw him again, at least on the Inquisition side, after the Conclave. Makes sense, since the Chantry deals in their own business and the Inquisition keeps their noses out of that, but someone with such a big name?”  
  
“Doesn’t make sense why something wasn’t heard,” Dorian’s frown obviously put Malinche at more worry, because she leaned around at him, frowning down at Varric.   
  
“Do you think they did something to him—?”   
  
“Don’t let Varric’s tales get the best of you, he likes to run his tongue,” Dorian couldn’t have stopped the words from coming out of his mouth if he wanted to, but he already knew he should have kept quiet. It was a lie. He was worried too, and she deserved the truth. What Varric was saying implied that maybe, just maybe, they didn’t know the whole story, and with his own worries already in place about Venatori activity, it only seemed to add to the queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach.   
  
Varric seemed to agree with his decision to spare her the worry, however, slowly nodding, “Sparkler’s probably right… All this is just speculations. Your brother’s probably just having fun romping around the ass end of the south, hm? Wanting to get away from his responsibilities for a bit.”  
  
Malinche paused, “That does sound like him…” Her face was dark, though. She was no idiot, and Dorian knew that she was thinking on it, speculating, wondering, going over the grimmer possibilities in her mind.   
  
Varric rose from the seat, giving Dorian one dark glance that the Dalish elf missed, before he made the offer he had most likely initially came to make, “Now, enough with day drinking. How about I show you just where you’ll be staying while you’re here?”   
  
Malinche nodded, and Dorian turned his head to watch them leave, not turning back to the counter until the bartender spoke up.   
  
“I’ll just put that on your tab, then,” The man gestured to the multiple drinks left at the counter, and Dorian scowled.   
  
“Absolutely horrible, I’d never expect this type of service in Tevinter!” The bartender just scoffed, and continued to write up a bill. Dorian couldn’t stay angry. He had paid more on nights on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Studying means my writings slowed down a bit! Should pick up after Wednesday!


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update to speed things along!

The next day, she decided she wanted to have a look around the hold.  
  
Dorian had taken to his usual spot, face characteristically displeased as he glanced over a book and wondered at the atrocious contents within. To say the least, when you read as much as he did, it was only to be expected that a number of the pieces would be less than satisfactory. Seated in the chair, glancing over the book with disinterest, it took him a few moments to notice the Dalish elf leaning in the entrance of his alcove in the library, eyeing him with those dark eyes of hers.  
  
Dorian slowly lowered the book, raising one eyebrow sharply, “Enjoying the view, I hope? I know how dashing I can be,” The half grin out of her was what he wanted, but it was clear that neither party was interested as she stepped into the small alcove. Those lines of worry still touched her face—the dark circles under her eyes gave away her lack of sleep, and Dorian easily noticed the slight tremor in her hands that indicated that she needed to rest, that she was feeling the grips of exhaustion—but chose not to say anything.  
  
“I wanted to look around Skyhold and was wondering if you’d like to join me,” Her voice was neutral, obviously open for him to say no. They hadn’t talked since the morning before, and Dorian had seen the looks the others gave her. Few would talk to her, besides Solas, Varric, Bull, and Cole, who seemed intrigued by her, whispering words of fate. It had been clear to Dorian that it made the elf uncomfortable, but that was no surprise. Cole often got under his skin, as well—it was something you had to become used to.  
  
“Well, I suppose if I must. My company is so often sought after that my schedule is ridiculously busy, you see,” But he was already standing up from his chair, setting the book aside. He would come back to it, but for now he was more than glad to pretend that he hadn’t just wasted one hundred pages of his time on such an atrocious text, “You’re lucky, earning a tour from none other than wonderful me,”  
  
“Clearly. I’ll have to remember to ask for your autograph afterwards,” The coy sound of her voice turned his lips up in a smile, and he circled down the stairs and into Solas’s room. The elf was tucked away into his own research, but when Malinche entered the room he slowly raised his eyes, giving her a soft smile that lit a fire under her cheeks. Now, _that_ could mean nothing but trouble, and Dorian quickly steered them out into the main hall.  
  
“You already acquainted yourself with this area. Throne room, general social functions, Vivienne glaring down on anyone who she doesn’t approve of. You’ll find not much else in here,” The garden was where he headed, entering the brightly lit courtyard and leaning over the railing to touch the flowers planted on the other side.  
  
Malinche visibly relaxed. Members of the Conclave moved throughout the courtyard, and Josephine and Leliana played chess in the distance, speaking in hushed tones. The abundance of greenery and flowers left the area smelling sweet, and Malinche couldn’t help but smile, “I like it here.”  
  
“Most do. Something to do with the lack of problems, I suppose. I think the amount of prayers is headache inducing,” He nodded at one of the Conclave woman, kneeling before a statue and praying over her fists. Malinche snorted, loud enough that a number of the members gave them a dirty look. The Dalish woman just turned around, leaning back against the railing and inspecting Dorian’s face with cautious curiosity.  
  
“I’ve been… told things,”  
  
“I hope only good things. About my splendid magical abilities and bravery on the battlefield, preferably,” He eyed her face. The slight frown now on her lips, the curve of her eyebrows, the way her own eyes flickered across his own face, obviously judging his expression.  
  
“I’ll have to be the judge of that myself,” She said, “More like things about you being a Tevinter Magister,”  
  
Dorian hummed, not quite able to stop the bitter little grin that burst forth, “Ah, good. Going to damn me, I suppose. I once had an elf spit at my feet, you know? Right on my favorite shoes! Absolutely atrocious.”  
  
Malinche half smiled again—obviously she was not planning on spitting on him, “No… nothing like that. You were nice to me when I arrived here, and I tend to stand by my first impressions,”  
  
“And I _always_ give lovely first impressions,”  
  
“Simply put, I’m curious. What’s a Tevinter doing with the Inquisition?”  
  
What _was_ a Tevinter doing with the Inquisition? As if the question hadn’t crossed his own mind. At first, this place had seemed like where he should remain, but now… as more time passed, and he felt more and more like an outcast, that mindset was shifting again. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t almost went back to Tevinter, or at least back out into Fereldan, within the last month. Yet the image of his fathers face, finding out he was back in Tevinter, rose unbidden in his mind, and he couldn’t help the sharp press of his lips.  
  
“The Inquisition was practically _begging_ for a mage as good as me—“  
  
“Come on, Dorian. I was honest with you… doesn’t that mean you should be honest with me?” Her voice was soft, and he eyed up her face. He had barely known her for two days, and even Cullen, who he had pressed against a wall, fucked in places the sun hadn’t kissed in years, didn’t know those little parts of him that made his heart hurt. No, she hadn’t earned that part of him yet, and she may never, but he did feel like she deserved part of the truth.  
  
“Dorian Pavus of House Pavus of the Tevinter Imperium, incredible at magic and more incredible with my tongue. Ostracized for disagreeing with the very thing that you likely hate my people for—but let me promise you, between the fashion and the food, Tevinter has this place beat for exquisite delicacies. Is there much more to say?”  
  
Realizing she wasn’t going to get much out of him this way, by just asking him to tell her, she sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Ostracized, you say?”  
  
“I don’t agree with everything the Imperium thinks is okay. Not much more to say on the matter, except that _someone_ had to say something, hm? Caused quite the dramatic commotion in my family, mind you.” His preference in men had been what had really driven him out. His sharp tongue and head strong attitude about his dislike of some aspects of his culture had been nothing compared to not being willing to happily marry and produce an heir, but all that was in the past—where he liked to keep it.  
  
Pushing off from the railing, he moved out of the garden, Malinche following him briskly and not letting up, “How exactly are you changing things here, then?”  
  
That made him frown, as they moved out the great doors of Skyhold’s main hall and into the sunlight, “I…” It wasn’t often that he was left speechless, and he played it off as stopping to point out the sparring ring, “Cassandra often keeps herself occupied there, putting the recruits on their asses in the dirt.”  
  
“You didn’t answer my question,” She did stop to watch the sparring happen, however, ignoring Dorian’s sigh of irritation with a soft smile.  
  
“Incorrigible…” He crossed his arms, “I’ll admit that someone, likely me, seeing as I’m the most obvious choice, will have to take a more active role in straightening out the Magisterium, but for now I needed to get away. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it there, this place is much too chilly,” They continued down the stairs, moving towards the infirmaries next.  
  
“Yet—“  
  
“And what of you? Why are you here, and not making a difference at your clan?” He regretted it as he said it, but he felt the need to redirect the conversation away from himself. She turned her head to scowl at him.  
  
“If I could be there, I would be. You know that. We deal with too many raids for me not to feel guilty about that. Yet sometimes you put the people you love first.”  
  
“Hm.” Inside the building, the smell of illness was thick, and Malinche eyed the sick bodies with a grim expression. Dorian didn’t say anything else, but her words did shake him. _Yet sometimes you put the people you love first_. Another foreign concept. Within the three days of her being here, she was going to cause him to open his eyes to _many_ of these new concepts, wasn’t she? Stepping out of the room after giving the worker a playful wink, he leaned against the stone wall and watched the sparring men in the distance for a moment.  
  
She spoke up first, “I’m sorry if I pressed. I’m still trying to get it straight in my head who I can trust here.”  
  
That drew a laugh out of him, and he turned his head to look at the short woman, who raised her eyebrows at him and crossed her arms, “Oh, my dear, I could have done that for you.”  
  
“Well then?”  
  
He turned back to looking across the courtyard, “I, for one, am easily the most trustable. Nobody makes a better ally than me—loath what others tell you,” Perhaps he sounded a bit smug, but what else was new? “Varric can be irritating, but he’ll stand by what he believes in, and he’ll choose you to believe in, I can bet. Bull is an oaf, but you’ll like him once you get to know him. Sera, too, wicked as she may be, and harder on the head.”  
  
“And what of Solas?”  
  
He turned back to her, raising one eyebrow, “Fancy him, do you?” Her cheeks warmed, and she had to look away from him with a frown, “I’d be cautious. I expect he’s prone to _bite_ , but perhaps you like that.”  
  
The snort out of her was followed by a shake of her head, “Even then, you don’t sound particularly fond of everyone,”  
  
“Cullen’s fun to toy with—“  
  
“So you admit you like him!”  
  
“Blasphemous. My styles too good for him to handle,” But he found himself heading towards the Commander’s offices anyway, her following behind with arms still crossed and curious eyes that he could feel against his back.  
  
“You don’t sound overly trusting of anyone, you know,” There was that curiosity. She reminded him of a puppy, in a way, wanting to know everything about the world but too clumsy to even get close to started.  
  
“For good reason. The same reason I suspect you have.”  
  
“I don’t _know_ these people,”  
  
“Neither do I, barely, and half of them want nothing to do with my ‘Tevinter’ heritage,” He stopped on the ramparts, turning to face the elf again, but she had turned away, observing the cliff face, and the mountains that stretched off into the distance, accented by clouds.  
  
“Then leave,” She half whispered it, and he suspected than that she wanted nothing more than to do the same. That this place was itching at her, pulling her into that existential dread of knowing you weren’t in the right place, the exact same as it did for him. For a moment, the silence stretched. Too far, too long, edging into awkwardness and Dorian scanned the skies ahead of them, until she spoke again, “I wonder where he is, right now,”  
  
_Hopefully not buried under six feet of soil_. Of course, he didn’t speak the thought, just stepping over to lean on the rampart’s with her, “Likely drinking away to his hearts content in some tavern, avoiding his overbearing sister.”  
  
She laughed, truly and fully, “More likely he’s gotten himself into a bar fight he could never win, or lost in some cave. He’s deathly afraid of spiders, you know? And not just the big ones. The little, innocent ones too. I’ve seen him jump on a chair to avoid one on the floor before.”  
  
_Endearing_ , he thought, and Dorian couldn’t help as his lips curled up, “Ridiculous—though I doubt he would appreciate you telling such embarrassing stories about him to someone as handsome and collected as me.”  
  
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t—“  
  
Another voice suddenly interrupted them, and Dorian turned to see Leliana approaching, Hawke and Cullen in step behind her, a letter in her hand and a grim look on her face.  
  
“If I’m interrupting, accept my apologies. We’ve located the last know location of your brother, Lady Lavellan.”  
  
This time, Malinche didn’t correct the title, instead turning to the woman with hard eyes with a softer gaze of her own.  
  
Dorian already dreaded the answer to the question that clutched the small elf.  



	6. Chapter 5

“So he’s officially missing.”   
  
The finality of her voice hurt. It tugged at little places inside him that he liked to ignore. Her face looked broken. Her expression cataclysmic, even as she clutched the letter in her hand, crumpling it with little regard to the venomous look that earned from Leliana. Luckily, she wasn’t the one who continued speaking. Hawke stepped forward, reaching out a hand to try and touch hers and unclench her fist from the piece of paper, but she jerked away from him, taking two steps briskly away and standing in front of Dorian. Over her head, him and Cullen shared a glance.   
  
“I’m sorry, Malinche. He was last seen at a small settlement in the Hinterlands, as the letter indicates. It’s an area of high Venatori activity that we have been actively trying to rectify ourselves,” Dorian’s jaw clenched, and Cullen gave him a dark look, a clear warning. _Don’t you dare_.   
  
It angered him, though. Too hear the Inquisition taking credit for work they hadn’t done, for work they hadn’t even attempted at. They hadn’t been so much as sniffing at the Venatori—apparently Hawke didn’t think it was a big enough concern. Yet the moment they came up in conversation, he denied such a thing.   
   
Malinche shook her head, both hands now clenched into fists, “So what now?”  
  
There was a long pause. The air seemed to crackle again. Hawke looked sheepish, and it ended up being Cullen who spoke, “We’ve been gradually increasing our activity in that area as well, so hopefully—“  
  
“I don’t want _hope._ I want _answers_. _”_

Cullen seemed stumped at that, and Hawke continued, in that same soft tone Dorian had heard him used with people who had just found out their family members had passed away, “The Inquisition really does want to offer you help, Malinche—“

“Then prove it,” She stepped away from Dorian than, and they all tensed as she slammed the piece of paper against Hawke’s chest, glaring up at him. The clench of his jaw was all that made the Champion’s tension clear, but Malinche didn’t falter, “Prove what this Inquisition is, because so far it seems like a whole lot of your guys jumping around questions and saving no one. I am not going to leave, I am not going to stop, not until I get help. Because right now, I want to find my brother. Dead or alive.”  
  
The words were jarring. Dorian had the sense that she had already accepted it. That she already suspected that her brother was dead, and was simply trying to put on a stronger face for the crowd. The whistle of the wind on the ramparts, the din of Skyhold’s residents talking, all seemed dull when her words were as harsh as they were. Yet Hawke still seemed hesitant, and Dorian took that moment to speak up.   
  
“We go picking vegetables enough for the Conclave, I’m sure you can spare a few of your more bored companions, Inquisitor? I’ll gladly volunteer my time for such a _just cause_ ,” The bite at the end of the sentence earned him a glare from Cullen, but he didn’t return the look, simply crossing his arms as the others looked at him. He had played the good boy, keeping his nose out of the political decisions, even if most of them gave him a headache. Vivienne got the brunt of his complaints, and usually she agreed with him, but for whatever reason he felt the need to make a change here—to stand up for this elf. Maybe it was because of her accusing him of being stagnant in his ideals, yet…  
  
Whatever it was, it had set a small fire in him, and he had missed that.   
  
“…A fitting suggestion,” Hawke gave a nod, pressing one of his considerably larger hands to Malinche’s shoulders and pressing her back, “How about you come with me, Malinche, and we’ll discuss the circumstances of this party. I suspect you’ll want to accompany it?”  
  
The woman faltered, curly hair flipping in the wind, before nodding and following Hawke, who briskly moved down the steps of the ramparts, Leliana fast on their heels. Cullen, on the other hand, watched them go, before turning back to Dorian.   
  
“Are you trying to get yourself in bigger trouble than you already are?” The hissed words were meant to sting, but Dorian just raised his eyes at the other man, following after him as Cullen practically stalked back to his office.   
  
“I wasn’t aware I was already in trouble! Have I been particularly _naughty_?” Playful as he was, Dorian felt a touch of dread in the pit of his stomach, which was only solidified when Cullen slammed the door behind them, turning to face him with that look of anger he only saw when a new recruit did something particularly _stupid._  
  
“I try, and try, and _try_. I put so much work into getting the others to trust you, yet you keep sticking your neck out against the Inquisition, without _thought_ of the consequences—“  
  
“I didn’t realize joining the Inquisition made freedom of speech null—“  
  
“When you’re you, it might as well!”  
  
Cullen realized he had said the wrong thing immediately, but plucking it out of the air was impossible, and the two men simply gazed at each other. Dorian couldn’t help clenching his jaw, his fists, licking his lips and trying to push away that anger inside him. They had fought before, but not like that. Not where Cullen had blatantly touched at something that he knew hurt Dorian. Dorian vastly preferred the stuttering fool of a man who could barely work around the ass end of romance when he was involved—not this bitter thing that he had become since their discussion over the chess game.   
  
“I believe we have more to speak about than just my behavior,” Dorian bit the words out, each one hurting, but crossed his arms. For once, they couldn’t just quell this argument with some passionate kiss or Cullen forcing him onto his bed up above their heads, and for once Dorian wouldn’t have wanted it. Cullen sighed, shaking his head.   
  
“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, “It’s just… Dorian, people talk. Sometimes your wit is taken as more than wit—“  
  
“I wouldn’t have it any other way—“   
  
“I can’t protect you from those rumors forever—“  
  
“I never _asked_ you to,” The accusing glare took Cullen aback, and he turned away from Dorian, running both his hands through his hair at once and sighing. Standing so far apart from each other, Dorian already knew what was coming next. When no one said anything, the silence stretching on like some unspoken hurt between them, Cullen pressed his hands down in his desk and looked up at Dorian out of the corner of his eyes.   
  
“If you’re going to go with her—“  
  
“I understand. You’ll find a lovely lass, I’m sure. Someone who will make you almost as happy as me, hm? Won’t be quite as good in bed, I’m sure—“  
  
“Dorian—“  
  
“I treat break up’s as light things, Cullen. Don’t think it’ll make me think any less of you. It was fun while it lasted, but we can keep it like that—a fun little memory, yes?”  
  
Cullen turned his head to look at him fully, the two men staring at each other. Dorian would have, perhaps, felt more hurt if he had not seen this coming. From the moment he got together with Cullen, it had felt like something was ticking under the surface. Dorian could not see the Commander ending up with anyone other than a woman in the end—and besides that, they had been little more than a fun fling. Yet the ache in Cullen’s eyes pulled at Dorian nonetheless, and he had to turn away.   
  
“A fun memory, then,” He finished, and pulled open the door, heading back out onto the ramparts.   
  
For a moment, he felt like turning back. Saying he would stay. Malinche had done something to him—made him hope, even when the topic hadn’t come up, and he wasn’t quite sure how she had that affect on him. Despite it, he continued on. There was little point in getting such silly expectations. What was between a man was always just fun—that was how it had always been for him. 

* * *

He mounted the horse with ease, flipping the fabric of his cloak back over the smooth behind of the creature as he always did, putting on a show for the small audience that had gathered. 

Malinche had already mounted, Solas resting on his own steed, a brilliant Hart they had acquired from the horse master just for this trip. Varric looked slightly uncomfortable on the considerably large horse he had, who kept sidestepping as if he wanted the dwarf gone. Dorian, on the other hand, kept the bridles gripped tightly, preferring not to let the mount get the best of him, especially when Cullen was watching.   
  
“Don’t get yourself killed, now,” The Commander’s voice wobbled slightly, but Dorian didn’t read into it, simply giving him that half smirk that had been half of what got their relationship burning.   
  
“Don’t kill too many things without me, yes?” That drew a laugh from the Commander, but Dorian was already pulling his mount around, turning to face Malinche and Hawke, who was passing her a map with a grim frown.   
  
“If I had been able to spare more for you, I would have, Malinche. It was truly nice meeting you, and I hope Maker blesses your path.”  
  
“I pray to the creators,” The slight of words made Hawke frown slightly, and set the crowd murmuring, but Malinche still gave him a nod, “I do appreciate all you’ve done. If we meet again, I hope it’s under less tense circumstances, and perhaps we may share a drink. I would rather this be a one-way trip, however. I plan on returning to my clan.”   
  
Hawke nodded, and stepped back. Malinche turned to face Solas, giving him a questioning look, and as the gates opened before them, the elf nodded. Dorian spurred his mount forward, following the two elves as they trotted through the opening. How many times he had walked through these gates, he couldn’t say. Every time, he had looked back.   
  
This time, he didn’t.


	7. Chapter 7

They found Lúthian a week later.  
  
Dorian would be lying if he hadn’t… enjoyed the time away from Skyhold. Malinche was a doll, even at her worst, when dark circles and tight lips gave away her stress and worry over her brother. Between him and Solas, they kept her laughing. They kept her with a smile on her lips, tales to be told, and something that resembled a sparkle in her eye. She was filled to the brim with stories of her brother that she wanted to tell, some embarrassing, some with a slight tone of disappointment, and some with the pure adoration she obviously had for the boy.  
  
_“He was just a kid, you know? Didn’t know the right side up of a razor, and he sheared his head. Cut off way too much, and our father and mother decided that he had to learn not to be so impulsive, so they made him wait for it to grow out—wouldn’t shave it off. Lúthian was absolutely distraught… god, I still remember how I had to hold him and tell him it didn’t look that bad—“_  
  
“He loved to run. God, he adored it. He just wanted to jump over roots and dash through the forest and not look back. Even when I was taller, bigger, and older than him—could never keep up. He was just so quick on his feet… I can’t imagine anyone could have caught him, even now.”  
  
“I think he felt… ashamed. Because he never specialized, and he never really… felt worthy of specialization, and because of that he didn’t think he had earned his tattoos. He drew them on, for a while. But he’s really not very good with a stencil. Father offered to get him verified, but Lúthian always refused. I never… really understood it, you know? Why not just get them done?”

The Hinterlands were vast, and by the time they had reached that little town where Lúthian had been first spotted, the trail was cold. Some people mentioned him, said he kept to himself, didn’t have much to say, and with each passing discussion, Malinche got more and more discouraged. Solas consoled her often, but even then she’d turn to Dorian once all others had went to bed, and whisper, _“I’m so scared… I’m so, so scared. I’ve never felt this before, I just want to know he’s alright…”_  
  
Dorian didn’t comfort often. He didn’t even know if he was particularly good at it, but he had gripped her shoulders, looked her in the eye, and told her _, “You can’t give up hope yet. Would he want that?”_ And when Malinche had shaken her head, hugged him, and pulled back, her jaw had been set once more. So Dorian supposed he had done something right.  
  
The travelling was lengthy. His legs chapped, and they often encountered bandits, and once even a bear. Provisions were bland, and Dorian hated the taste of the dried, salty meat, but as always put up with it. Between Solas’s stories of the fade, and Malinche’s stories of her brother, Dorian was kept busy enough.  
   
_“He was bullied a lot. Bullied… way too much. They’d throw rocks at him, sometimes. The other kids. He was smaller, and they were cruel. I tried to stand up for him when I could, but that just got him angry, because he didn’t want me doing that. Again with the proving himself, I suppose. It hurt him, though. I think it followed him for longer than he let on,”_ She whispered that one to Dorian, for his ears only.

 _“The first time he cast a spell! Oh, gosh, yes Solas. I’m sure you remember your first time? And you too, Dorian? His face just lit up! He was so pleased, so happy, to make that little bit of fire. He was so determined after that, to get really good at magic—so sure that he’d found what he wanted to do. I was so, so proud.”_  
  
The footmen slowed them down. Cullen had spared them a few, men with swords and shields and spears, and while Dorian was pleased to have them with him, since the Venatori were ruthless, he could not help but think they could travel twice as fast if not for the soldiers. Varric agreed with him, muttering one evening about how the guards didn’t seem to be taking the matter at hand seriously, and they should have had two days progress by now instead of one. Dorian had begrudgingly agreed, chewing on a piece of meat with a disgruntled expression that had made Varric laugh and slap him on the shoulder.  
  
_“That running? It came in handy. He really proved himself to father one day, I think father was proud. Lúthian was out in the woods, and he saw the members of the raid, and he ran—I still get scared to think of what could have happened if he hadn’t been fast enough… had been spotted—shot by an arrow. Gives me shivers. But god, he ran, and he warned us, and we were ready for that raid. Father let him drink ale for the first time because of that.”_

_“When we lost mum… he didn’t talk for a week. He just didn’t. He was really shaken by it—of course, I was too. But he was just… he was completely destroyed by it. Sixteen, and suddenly mum was gone? He was so animated, happy, telling stories and explaining things with his hands to her. He missed her so much.”_

_“Yes, Varric. It is rather like that, with siblings. I think I’m too harsh on him sometimes—telling stories that would embarrass him. But it’s just… I know he does the same—I’ve caught him doing the same! He ran when he saw me coming, and for good reason. I fancied that boy, and he ruined it.”_  
  
Dorian would be lying if he said he hadn’t… grown fond of the idea of Lúthian. It was nothing more than that—a fondness. Malinche described him in a way that made him seem so human—so real. Lúthian sounded like someone who Dorian would both find… borderline unbearable, but also want to spend more time with, and it made him more wary to continue on this path. If they found him dead, it was only going to be a… disappointment, as grim as it was to think.  
  
One town gave Malinche the small spark of hope that she still needed, the tavern keeper talking about how, yes, a white haired man _had_ passed through here very quickly. “ _Seemed to be some sort of merchant, ma’am, but undoubtedly an elf. Not many white haired elven around these parts, so he stood out. Didn’t stick around for long, though._ ” Malinche had been nearly beside herself that night, with a drink in her hand and a grin on her lips and her eyes sparkling, “ _It sounds like he’s alright! Oh gosh, Dorian, this is… Am I stupid for hoping?”_  
  
He had bumped his mug against hers with a steely grin, “ _Keep that hope, my dear. It does wonders for your complexion.”_  
  
Those hopes dwindled quickly after that.  
  
Dorian saw it happen at the first camp they found. Venatori, skulls scattered along the ground, obviously used for some ritual. Solas had gingerly picked one up, and Malinche had scanned them, as if she had expected to see some sort of reflection of her brother in the bones. Dorian had pressed his hands to the ritual stand, glancing over the lined up skulls with a shake of his head, “ _As pleasant as always.”_  
  
“Don’t,” Malinche had whispered, but when Dorian looked over at her with a raised eyebrow, the fire had returned to her eyes.  
  
“ _Don’t give up yet, kid,_ ” Varric had reached for her, but she had stepped away, moving for her steed. Solas and the dwarf shared a look, before following after her.  
  
_“I don’t plan on it.”_

* * *

 

When they reached the last village before finding him, they were met with grim news. 

Dorian stood slightly behind Malinche, listening to the market man as he spoke. The man seemed uncomfortable, shifting back and forth. His wares consisted of fruit and vegetables, and many stands were lined up alongside him, filled with trinkets and jewelry and even one stand showing off a number of ornate daggers. The air here was dry, dust drifting with the wind, and the mountains around them did little to chase off that Ferelden chill.  
  
“Venatori?”  
  
“Yes, lass. Venatori. They pass through here a lot. Picking up tranquil or the occasional merchant… and we aren’t apt to stop ‘em. We just mind our own business, close our shutters. That brother of yours… I hope he’s okay, but you’d best catch up to them.”  
  
“Not _apt_ to stop them?” Dorian couldn’t help his voice from snapping out, earning himself a glare from Malinche that he ignored—and didn’t particularly think he deserved, “So you let them parade through here and just take whoever they want? How do you even _sleep_ at nigh—“  
  
“We do the best we can, sir, truly,” The man’s voice was sharp, his eyes flashing. He was old, and two children peeked out from the building behind him, eyeing up the commotion their father, or perhaps grandfather, was involved with, “My own nephew stood up against them once. You know what they did? Sliced off his head. I had to watch it roll across the courtyard. So _sorry_ if we value our lives.”  
  
Dorian was rather taken aback, and Varric’s hand on his elbow had to be what pulled him away. Dorian allowed it to happen, stunned silent for once, enough to resort to a hasty retreat. Malinche’s voice, however, sparked some of the fire back into him.  
  
“You don’t have to evoke their anger, Dorian. They’re trying to _help_ , not looking to have _you_ attack them!”  
  
“Oh, don’t start with me. As if you don’t think it’s ridiculous—“  
  
“It’s _rational_. It’s _life_. Not everyone lived a sheltered life in a fancy mansion—some of us have to watch out for our own necks because someone might just slit it open.”  
  
She turned, and so did Solas. Varric just gave a low whistle, and Dorian could only watch, with hard eyes, as Malinche mounted her steed again, already moving away from the village, following the trail even as the sun started to drop. What made it worse, was the tight feeling of guilt in his stomach, “I don’t often say I am in the wrong—“  
  
“You probably are, sparkler,” Dorian sighed, before turning to help Varric onto his horse, before mounting his own and spurring after Malinche and Solas, who were already farther ahead.  The people of the town watched them go, the wooden shacks seeming to loom over Dorian, as if condemning him even more than his words already had.  
  
Perhaps, if they moved fast, they could reach the end of this road before nightfall.

* * *

They did reach them before nightfall. 

The sky was blood red, some sort of omen for what was to come, Dorian supposed. The sun had nearly vanished behind the mountain, and the air was freezing. There was barely any warning before they were upon them. The footmen gave a roar, Malinche dismounted and was gone in a wave of black smoke, and both Dorian, Varric, and Solas dismounted and spread out, ready to take their positions in the distance. He landed his first spell at the same time that Malinche landed her first dagger, and Dorian heard one of the Venatori scream as he was ruthlessly lit on fire.  
  
A footmen fell to a shadow, who vanished again before Dorian could even consider honing in on him. A soldier swiped at Solas, but the skilled mage easily fade stepped away, far from the commotion, and continued to barrage the Venatori with rift magic. Roars and screams and the smell of blood and burning flesh filled the air, and Dorian’s skin crawled.  
  
Malinche stumbled and fell, her knees crumbling and her daggers scrambling as a broadsword bluntly took her in the shoulder, but Dorian sent the large, towering man flying even as an ice shard sent him falling to the side—Varric quickly enough letting loose a bolt that sent the other Venatori mage falling. It was to little hope for Dorian, however, because the shadow materialized behind him and nearly sliced his neck open. Dorian tucked and rolled and whipped his staff around, ending with the shadow falling to the ground. He gasped and bled and scrambled, but Dorian brought his staff down with a— _crack_ —on his nose, leaving the man whimpering and screaming. One of Varric’s bolts to the neck put him down, and satisfaction twisted Dorian’s stomach.  
  
Solas cast a barrier around Malinche, and Dorian turned just in time to see the glowing woman’s newly obtained dagger slide into the neck of a Venatori soldier as a footman tripped up the bastard. Dorian spun, catching a mage by surprise and searing off his face with a brutal burst of flame, following it up with the pull of deathly spirits that dragged the mage to the ground.  
  
It happened so quickly, in fact, that Dorian nearly didn’t realize it had ended.  
  
What came next felt just as quick. In fact, the entire world seemed to speed back up as he gasped, gripping an injured shoulder and fade stepping closer to the others. He looked up just in time to hear a voice that he had been waiting to hear for days—trapped behind a cage, hands tied, and face amiably pleased with a small smile.  
  
His forehead stood out like a sore beacon, though. The lyrium brand made him weak at the knees, and repulsed his magical self to the core. He was just close enough to hear Lúthian’s voice—the monotone sound of it, the absolute lack of care with no attempt to show anything otherwise.  
  
“Hello, Malinche.”  
  
At that, she began to irrationally wail. Dorian could have sworn that it was the most heartbreaking noise he had ever heard.  
  
He stepped forward, catching her at the shoulders as his eyes looked up to observe the slightly befuddled looking Lúthian. His hair frizzed around his face, a bloody strike mark on his right temple stained with old, dried blood, and his lips chapped and bitten. His eyes seemed to shine back at him, having no concern over his current state besides to struggle against the binds at his wrists and ask in that same monotone voice, “Would someone untie me?” Varric worked at the lock, and when the door swung open. Solas stepped forward to untie him, and Malinche tugged against Dorian’s hands.  
  
“No, no, no—“  
  
“Malinche—“  
  
“Please Dorian, not this—“  
  
“Malinche, breathe, it’s going to be okay—“  
  
“Not if he’s tranquil, Dorian—not if he’s tranquil—please, Dorian, _please_.”  
  
Even as Dorian wrapped his arms around her and tried to move her back to her feet, he didn’t know what he could tell her.

 _Tranquil. Of course._ Dorian’s mind jumped back to a different conversation. Solas’s voice, explaining to Malinche just what tranquility meant, entailed, after the merchant had mentioned it, “ _It disconnects them from the fade, making them practically magic less, but is rather frowned upon for it’s brutality.”_  
  
_“Just how is that brutal?”_  
  
_“It strips them of their emotional capabilities. They essentially become logical beings. They don’t feel any longer, simply see the world in black and white. Many see it as wrong, and avoid them because their lack of expression is unnerving. They’re easily identified because of the Chantry’s mark on their forehead.”_  
  
_“That’s… horrible.”_  
  
_“...Perhaps.”_  



	8. Chapter 8

The glass felt heavy in his hand.   
  
For once, the alcohol actually seemed to _burn._ It didn’t feel like it warmed his insides. It simply left him with a stronger sense of dread than what he had before. The previous few hours wouldn’t stop flashing through his head, and Dorian found himself gripping the bridge of his nose, trying to take a deep breath, trying to shake it off.

 _The look on her face when she finally stopped sobbing. The shaking of her shoulders. The way her mascara ran, and her cheeks were blotchy, her gaze wild as she looked across the battlefield, strewn with blood, at the brother that she barely seemed to recognize. Solas’s hands lifted her at the shoulders, and Dorian heard the small keen that escaped her throat, as she let herself get led away, stumbling as if she wasn’t quite there. Wasn’t quite aware of the world around her.  
  
_ He had seen people break like that. He had seen people find out their loved ones were dead, and it went eerily like that. He hated it. He hated how he had been frozen, unable to move, to go see her. Dorian didn’t know why he hated it so much, because he had only known Malinche for such a short period of time—barely enough time to call her a friend, but he felt that guilt anyway. As if he had somehow failed her, in finding her brother like this, in not being there to comfort her. As if he could have done anything, _changed_ it somehow, _reversed_ time or something else even more impossible.

 _Sheer dumb fucking luck._ The fact that Lúthian was even alive?   
  
Dorian couldn’t help but feel like it might have been better if he had just died. If Malinche had been dealing with a dead body instead of a… a…  
  
No, it was wrong. That thought was wrong. _At least he was alive._

_The glow of warmth as Dorian spurred himself into action, pressing healing magic to the wounds on Lúthian’s wrists. The chains had dug deep into his skin, leaving gouges that bled and oozed and smelled raw and fresh. He felt that pain as he healed it, and couldn’t bring himself to look at Lúthian’s face. At the small, amiable smile on his lips. At the look of peace even as most people would be screaming, sobbing, wailing, after watching all these people die around them, release their wastes and fall limp and get beheaded and skinned like fucking animals—_

_“My thanks.”_ _That resolute, unfeeling voice made Dorian’s skin crawl, but he gave a nod. He almost hadn’t expected Lúthian to give a rational response. A small, guilty part of him had expecting Tranquility to equal something much less… intelligent than this. Yet Lúthian’s eyes still glinted with intelligence, a bright spark.  
  
“You should really go comfort your sister—“  
  
“She is upset.” The words sounded so final that it was jarring to Dorian. This wasn’t the voice he had expected to come from the boy Malinche had described, “I understand that, but I don’t understand why. I am still I.”  
  
_ No you aren’t, he had thought. Dorian had barely been able to speak to him, and even now, as he took a swig of that alcohol, so strong that it burnt his throat, reminding him of the vile drinks Iron Bull liked to give him, he could barely comprehend what… Lúthian _was_. He knew of Tranquil, of course. He had done his research. He knew they were intelligent—yet some dark, unrighteous, guilty part of him thought that they weren’t. Some part of him expected idiotic answers out of Lúthian, or for him to not be rational. He didn’t expect that he’d be completely… in his right mind.

_“Shouldn’t you care to know why?” He couldn’t help it. It was a test, a jab, and an attempt to understand the phenomenon granted by the chantry in front of him. Lúthian looked up from his wrists to give Dorian an inquisitive look, but Dorian couldn’t help but wish that he would wipe that amiable smile off his face. It was as unnerving as the serious tone of his voice._

_“I once would have cared,” Dorian dropped his hands abruptly, but Lúthian continued, barely noticing, “I will ask her how she is later, if you believe that it would be best.”_

Dorian couldn’t understand that, either. Obviously, Lúthian was still… fond of his sister, yet there was nothing behind it anymore. Nothing to reinforce it. Dorian had found himself looking at the man, searching for something—some spark of the child that Malinche described to be in him with such joy before they actually found him. All he got was those inquisitive, intelligent eyes—and little else.

It was unnatural.

He hadn’t been the only one inspecting him. The guards had as well, whispering the name they had called this Tranquil after the chantry. _Herald_ and _Andraste’s favored_ and more. They had pointed at the dull, grey scar of the mark on his palm. Dorian had found himself staring at it briefly as well.

_“They still call me the Herald, but I worshipped the blessed ones. I no longer feel inclined to pray to any gods, however. Would it be best to inform them?”_

_“I don’t think they want to hear it, Lúthian.”_

“I’m going to return to Skyhold with you, and then Lúthian and I are going back to our clan.”  
  
Dorian jumped, looking up from the depths of his drink at Malinche. She stood in the dim light of the tavern of the inn they had stopped at for the night with her head raised high. Yet her arms gave her away as she gripped her elbows tightly, trying to still the fine tremble that Dorian could see running through her entire body. As she stepped forward into the light, taking a seat beside him at the bar, he noted how red her eyes were, puffy with the tears that she had obviously shed. A drink in her hand a moment later, and suddenly it resembled their first meeting in some bitter, sad little way.   
  
“You wouldn’t imagine how hard it was to slip away from Solas right now. He seems to think I’m going to fall into a thousand pieces…” Her voice was soft. It trembled in the same fine way that her body did, and Dorian turned to stare into his drink again. He couldn’t manage a soft smile for once.   
  
“I haven’t quite discounted it yet,” She gave a scoff at that, drinking back what Dorian assumed was a very strong alcohol in one quick motion, even as she rubbed her face.   
  
“I shouldn’t think of it as the end of the world—“  
  
“Why not?” Her shoulders shook softly when he said it, and Dorian hadn’t entirely meant to voice the thought. He stared across the bar, hand curling against his leg, “I would say sorry for this all, my dear, but I don’t think it would help—“  
  
“Nothing can help this… fucking feeling,” Her hand clutched at the cloth over her heart, and Dorian gave a soft sigh of his own, leaning over to wrap one arm around her shoulders impulsively. Her entire body trembled, and she started to lean away from him at first. Yet she seemed to think better of it, and leaned into the half embrace. Her curly hair pressed against his cheek as she rested her head in the groove of his shoulder, and she gave a barking, pained laugh.   
  
“I was so excited for you to meet him,” She made it sound like he hadn’t. Like the man they had found out there, with blood on his face and wild tangled hair, with dull, cold eyes wasn’t her brother. Like they had found him dead.  
  
“He’s still your brother—“  
  
“He’s not the same.”  
  
“… _Kaffas_. I suppose you are right there,” The buzz in his head was doing nothing to take away the dread at the pit of his stomach, and Dorian drank more to accommodate it, even as he felt Malinche take a deep sigh against him.   
  
“…I don’t know what I’ll say to the clan… I don’t know how I’ll handle it… him… on top of this all… I don’t know if I can be there for…” Dorian’s other hand lifted from his drink to press against hers, squeezing it tightly. Malinche fell silent, her entire form going still, and for a few minutes the only noise was the soft banter in the tavern and the bartender cleaning dishes in the kitchen.   
  
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know—“ She leaned away from him abruptly, already reading into his voice, and Dorian had to respect her for the sharp set of her jaw as she shook her head.   
  
“I know what you’re getting at, and no. You have other, bigger things to accomplish, to do, than—“  
  
“Like what?” The playful grin felt forced, and the wink even more so as he leaned forward on the bar, looking at her from the side, “Play chess with attractive Templars and _not_ get asked to help with the Inquisition? I’ve been through all the books in Skyhold’s library, it’s time for a change of scenery—though I’m not sure how your clan will take to a vile, horrible Altus mage amidst them.”

When she didn’t say anything, just looking down at the ground, he tried to sound more sincere, “We can… work through this, my dear. Let me help you work through this. It’s just a hiccup—“  
  
“It’s not, Dorian!” The rise out of her was almost welcome now, with how dull and broken she had seemed since finding Lúthian. The fire directed at him gave him a bit of life himself, “This is _permanent_ , they took away my brother— _and_ it’s certainly not a hiccup—“  
  
“And you’re certainly not strong enough to handle this one on your own.”  
  
He thought she would yell at him. Then he thought she would storm off—walk away, leave, disgusted and done with him and his tongue that went too fast for him to stop by times. Instead, her shoulders ease out of that tense position, and she sighed and covered her face.   
  
“…You’re right.”  
  
He huffed, trying to add some humor to the situation by his fake irritation, “Yes, well, you can stop twisting my arm already. I’ll come with you, even if I usually chase after more attractive prospects.”  
  
It got the reaction he wanted, because she laughed softly, before standing from the stool. Malinche couldn’t manage to meet his eyes again, however, and turned to leave, “I… right. Thank you. You should… sleep soon, too. It’s a long trip back to Skyhold, and a longer one across the Waking Sea if you mean it—“  
  
“I’ll be dreadfully sore, then—“ She was already moving away though, as if in a stupor, and he briefly considered following her for a moment. Making sure she got to her room in one piece. Yet the appeal of the glass in his hands, and the idea of getting thoroughly buzzed so that tomorrow would only hurt more but in a different way, kept him at the bar, with a much stronger drink than before.   
  
What sort of promise had he just made?

 

* * *

“If I had known…”

“You couldn’t have, the chantry dealt with him,” Cassandra’s voice was harsh towards Hawke, and the crowd that had gathered watched with whispers and shifting gazes. The trip back to Skyhold had been long, with Malinche keeping a harsh silence near the front of the group as they made their way. Even Solas had not been able to draw her out of the walls she had put up, and had instead taken to speaking to Lúthian. They spoke about magic, and the Fade, and the mark on Lúthian’s hand.   
  
_“It was an unknown magic. It was best to contain it. My Tranquility was for the best._ ” Dorian had seen Malinche’s shoulders stiffen at that, but she had said nothing. Dorian knew that the Tranquil did not often see what was done to them as bad, yet he had… always expected that when asked by someone when the chantry was not watching, that it would be different. That they would say that they missed feeling. Yet he supposed even that was beyond them. They _couldn’t_ miss something.   
  
“Are you sure you should go?”  
  
“Are you concerned about me, Commander?” Dorian turned with one eyebrow raised, and Cullen gave a sigh, his eyes flashing between Dorian, Malinche, and finally Lúthian, who stood near the back of their little party. They had stopped in Skyhold to mainly restock and drop off Varric and Solas.   
  
“Not so much concerned, as… wondering if you’re doing something you’ll regret,” Dorian appreciated the concern. It was hard not too. There was still an awkwardness, obviously there by the way that Cullen shifted his feet, and kept his body angled slightly away from him, but at least… at least he cared enough to ask.   
  
“No need to hide it! You’ll miss me, Commander! I’m sure you’ll find another strapping young lad to keep you on your toes,” When Cullen gave an irritated sigh, though, Dorian did the same, and ran a hand over his face, “I… You know it was only a matter of time until I left. Tevinter is closer if I cross the Waking Sea, and she’ll need a hand after all this—I feel obligated, too, since it’s partially the Inquisition fault—“  
  
“It’s not _your_ fault—“ Dorian raised his hand, though, and Cullen fell silent.   
  
“Now, don’t beg, it’s unbecoming of you,” He glanced back through the open gates. A chilled wind rushed through, promising snow later and perhaps even a storm. Malinche and Hawke’s words were too quiet for Dorian to catch, but their discussion was obviously intense  
  
“I’ll write, if you’re so distressed over it—“  
  
“You don’t have too,” Cullen gave a laugh, though, and Dorian knew that whatever came next, at least they had ended on good terms.   
  
Malinche mounted her horse, and Dorian did the same, giving a half nod to Cullen before riding up to rest by her. Hawke gave them another nod, before taking a few steps back. Lúthian had joined them, spurring his own mount forward, and Malinche gave him one worried look before rushing through the open gate, obviously ready to leave Skyhold behind once and for all. Dorian—feeling rather same, took off after her, Lúthian following at a slightly slower pace.   
  
_Now to hope that her clan doesn’t wring my neck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes that this is going to be a very long fic, and that at points it is not going to always represent a healthy relationship/relationships. It also does not follow the Inquisition story line, which will be happening in the background. It will, however, cover Dorian's personal quests in a way, shape or form.


End file.
